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Monday, July 25, 2011

I don’t like new highlighters. I rely on good
highlighters to carry me through medical school’s wordy and often cryptic
prose. In a literal and beautiful way, highlighters add color. Add balance. But
new can be frustrating. Yes, new embodies the anticipation of unraveling
long-awaited treasures on the eve of change. New is progress, growth, flourish
and potential, all waiting to be uncapped. But new is also awkward.

It’s a green
excitement that bleeds through your pages with good intentions—where subtleties
are underscored with thick lumbering strokes yearning for a more seasoned
grace. But that grace is not today. No, today my newness remains emerald in
approach yet spinach in execution. Bold in enthusiasm, but slim in experience.
With patience, with work, I have faith that green can one day soften into sage.
But today, green is still green. It bleeds, it stains, it awaits tomorrow. This
is the experience of learning—learning to provide, to perform, to care, and to
comfort. Learning to highlight. Green is the journey of medicine as a
third-year student.

Monday, July 11, 2011

I reclaimed my life a few weeks ago. After three
months in academic quarantine, I finally took my medical board exam. The boards
are a Faustian rite of passage crafted by some black angel of medicine—an
8-hour standardized test designed to crush your soul in preparation for
clinical rotations. Or in the words of the masseuse I visited afterwards, “Holy
cow. Why do they do that to you guys?” But I forded the river, kept my oxen
alive, and lived to see Oregon without too many of my kids dying from dysentery
(see below). So for this, I am grateful.

To be sure, there are
plenty of things I’d rather do than reminisce about 3 months in preparation for
multiple-choice hell. But in the same way a masseuse might untwist the knots
you’ve accumulated in your back, I thought reflecting on some of the highlights
and lowlights (they are the same thing) of studying could purge myself of some
pent-up demons. So I present to you my stats:

Money spent on coffee
in 3 months: $95.58

Plants that died
because I forgot to water them: 2 small plants, 1 tree

Plants I am going to
buy in the near future: 0 (lesson learned)

Hours spent listening
to Jay Z’s “Dream” on repeat: 18.65

Practice
questions/cases seen: 4073

Practice patients that
I killed: 861 (disproportionate numbers died from misdiagnosed infections or
drug-related mismanagement. It was devastating losing the little ones.)

Most consecutive hours
spent in the library: 16 (This was an accident. And a tragedy. Tiffany dropped
me off on this fateful morning, got held up late at work, and as a result, I
was stranded without a ride home. A resident who was studying for Step 3 shared
a desk with me for 12 of those hours. As he left he wished me luck, eyes
glowing with pity.)

Books I read outside
of board-review texts: 0

Time it took me to
finish my first book after taking the boards: 2 days

The feeling of picking
up that first book in 3 months without having a highlighter in the other hand:
priceless

My favorite pen: blue ballpoint at first, red later on
(the color of rage)

Recently, I’ve been
fighting to reclaim those parts of my life that I’ve forfeited for many months.
Because by mid-June before my test, I had gracefully spiraled into a deep, dark
place where the light of perspective no longer shined. I found this the best
place to study. At one point, I even confided jokingly to a friend that I would
sacrifice my firstborn for a respectable 3-digit score. We laughed even though
we both knew I was mental. I’m trying not to be mental. I tried frantically
after my test to pack in enough time in the sun, the waves, and the company of
friends and family before the start of my third year. Naturally, third year
started without regard to time spent doing happy things. So for now, it’s back
to the coffee, the highlighters, and yes, the library. Back to chasing heftier
stats and higher scores. It seems like all I can do is clutch whatever brief
moments of sanity I am afforded and grasp on tight to perspective even as I
slip from one relapse to another. I guess I'm okay with that. In fact, I'm
grateful for it. Maybe I'm mental.